Camagüey, May 11st – I envy yesterday. Of the reality of others, of the origin of all. Of the years where my country was forged, where the foundations of what we are today were warmed up, of the History made by men and not letters, where the facts are alive and not printed.
That´s exactly the place where you, Ignacio, slender eternal young man, you are in the comfort of the familiar home, of goods, of love.
Just there it is where you leave everything and stop being the patrician of toga and mortarboard to be the male who would liberate in ideas and shame the whole nation, the teacher of the men who were learning to be free, the man who was receiving communion with the poor.
Like many, I dream with someone who dedicates me his letters as burning as those that you, graceful Agramonte, dedicated to the most envied woman of every century, Amalia. Such love does not fit in any Guinness, and it is a pride of those who feel it nearby in the area and in the spirit.
I think about the pasture which was honored by your combat, supposedly the last one, and that was bathed with the blood of the Major of the best-organized cavalry of the Great War; in those who saw the skies open with your fall and assured the end of the determination of many, the end of a birth: the Republic.
They and many others will never be able to understand that even to 144 years of the eleventh day of May, 1873 you are still raising from the ground in Jimaguayú. To those who still doubt it, , they must ask the youth under your control, quixotic Ignacio.(Adelante)